


(you) taste like (jade green)

by oncewewerezombies



Series: Homesmut fills : Box of Bad [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Guro, Jealousy, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, autocannibalism, forced eating, forced sopor ingestion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 15:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5295983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any troll, body horror.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://vertebraeaker.tumblr.com/post/132760606519/signs-as-gurogore-tropes">These.</a></p><p> </p><p>virgo: autocannibalism & being forcefed one’s own organs raw, willfully or not</p>
            </blockquote>





	(you) taste like (jade green)

One of your first thoughts when you wake up is that you smell baking.

A close second would be that you are tied to a chair. You try to move your arms or your legs and all you can do is squirm where you are roped into a seated position, your skirt pinned around you. Knees pressing hard against the confines of your skirt, ankles and thighs tied to the legs and seat of the chair; the thought that someone has touched you there makes your stomach hurt. You want your chainsaw, but with your hands tied down, you can’t reach out to grasp it from your sylladex, pull your strife specibus out and ripcord it into snarling life.

You are vulnerable and suddenly you know it like a stone where all your insides used to be.

“Looks like a sister has all up and got her fucking wake on. What’s going down with you, my rainbow drinking bitch?”

Gamzee, what has he done, why are you here. Your pusher hammers in your chest, as much as it can now with the drag of your undeath, your rebirth, slowing it down. You watch him, as much as you can see him as he moves around. Your skin lights up the room well enough, if you can catch a glimpse of him, you can see him. When he’s out of your sight, you feel a crawling on your skin like nothing you have ever felt before. Fear. Fear crawling all over your skin, inside your brain and you wonder how much is natural and how much is his chucklevoodoos. You had never believed in them before, but there is a pointed urgency to your fear now that makes you wonder.

The room is bare, empty, but you can smell death. Something sickly, something rotted, and something else. This room is shadowed where you don’t light it, and you can see to the edges as he moves around you, alternatively looming and skulking. Like he’s playing chase with his shadow as it rises against the curve of the metallic wall. No, this will be fine, you will talk some sense into him, enough so that he reaches out to Karkat and then. Then you will be free to go.

“Gamzee. What am I doing here?”

You keep your voice slow and careful, not wanting to upset him further. Your head hurts; he must have hit you over the head with a club as you were walking the corridors of the satellite and then dragged you here, to this room that stinks of death and decay. It smells so bad, you can taste it over your tongue as you breathe in and there is also this sweet-sour smell drifting over the top of something baking. Something cooking.

He laughs, and it’s raw and rasping like a knife dragged over a whetstone. 

“Got something for ya, my wicked blooddrinkin’ sista. Something sweet. Good for a motherfucker and what all up and ails them. Something to _settle your motherfucking pan_. Gonna put a hole in it, _match up with the one through your guts_.”  


The low snarling hate in his voice makes you hesitate over your next words, the rage in him trembles in the room like its own separate troll. What have you done, that has made him feel this way about you? You hate him, but it’s strictly platonic. If his hate is so deep, so immense and still platonic, you wonder why you’re still alive. Does he not know how to kill you, in your rebirthed state? Or does he have something worse planned than your mere ending?

“Gamzee, surely we can talk about this -”

His hands slam onto your forearms where they are tied to the chair and it rocks backwards under you, tilts and your breath catches in your throat as his glaring eyes focus on yours. There is a little spark of red dancing deep in his pupils and your fear is suddenly overwhelming. You have never been afraid of him before, not like this, wary had been the height of your apprehension. You realise now that you should have been more concerned when he’d crawled off into the vents after the murder frenzy that had ripped through your group of hatefriends, prior to the arrival of the human players. You should have been a lot more worried than you were, but Karkat had said he could handle him, so you had put all thoughts of the clown aside. 

Mistake. Such a mistake. A mistake you will never get to fix.

Oh god, it smells of stagnant death in this hole, this cavern he has made his noisome den.

Your body will join it, he is going to kill you from the loathing and rage you can see in his eyes. You will rot here. You will never see Rose again, you will not have a chance to say these things that you have thought, to express your admiration of how she speaks and her wit, of the clear curve of her throat. You want to have had the bravery to tell her all those things you have held inside yourself. You will never see her again, you will not ever have a chance to express the reddening pity you had felt welling up inside yourself the more time you had spent with her, the deeper your conversations had dwelled. No, you are going to join the corpses you can smell rotting to slime inside this clown’s oubliette.

“Talk? Wasn’t no motherfucking word of talk when you all up and _sliced my Tavbro_ all up and in motherfucking _half_. Ain’t no word of talkin’ now, while you _cast sideways fucking glances_ at what is all up and mine, all sorts of miraculous _serendipitous and pale_.” His voice is a trickling poison, low and steady with a lilting pattern that comes and goes, comes and goes in unsteady places and unsafe paces. You lean back against the chair as much as you can and try to tuck your chin, protect your throat from those suddenly deadly looking fangs, no hint of lazy smile to be seen. “You _cast your motherfucking_ EYES _where they_ ARE NOT _fucking_ WANTED. Sister.”

His voice goes from a crescendo of shouting rage to a soft chill, almost reminiscent of the purpleblooded troll you remember from when you had first met him in person. Somewhat somnolent, lazy and good humoured. But you can feel the rage in him, there is that red in the back of his eyes, like what Karkat had papped out of him in that showdown after all the death. All your words stick in your throat, and he releases his grip on your arms as he turns away. There are trickles of jade running down your skin, and you can’t stop the light in you from getting stronger, brighter, a fear response. Trying to frighten him away with the white glow that had meant predator, death, terror on Alternia. You are only a pupa. You had thought you were so strong, but he had managed you so easily.

“Like I _said_ , my luminescent sister...got something for you as to _get your motherfucking chill on_. So you’ll stop thinking on _taking_ what is motherfucking mine, to have and fucking hold.” He moves faster than you would think he could and you rock back in the chair again, startled. The legs of it scrape on the floor, and you wish you could pretend that you were not afraid. That you feel no terror, although you feel a certain sort of curiosity now as he holds a pie tin in one hand and his facepaint smiles for him, his mouth underneath the grin is a stern, cruel line. The sweet-sour scent drifts towards you and you can see a droplet of bright green glimmering on the edge. “ _Open up_.”

“I am _not_ eating _sopor_ ,” you insist raggedly and you’re tied down and helpless so you give up your poise and bite at him with your newly lengthened fangs as he comes close. He grabs you by one horn and you cry out, and then your mouth is full of the lime green poison. “Urgh!” You try to spit it out, but he’s shovelled it down into your mouth, there’s warm sopor all over your face, your throat and one hand is holding it inside before you can vomit. The other hand. The other strokes your throat as he holds your head back, a straight line from mouth to stomach as you try and snarl, almost aspirating the sticky slime as you try vainly to pull yourself out of the chair. Away from him. “Hrrk, ggrrhh!”

You’re an unsightly mess, you’re weeping jade tears from the corners of your eyes, there is sopor smeared over your face and dripped down your shirt, in your hair. But as his long finger stroke your throat, you swallow. Convulsive, unwilling, but again and again, you swallow. The sopor hits you hard and fast, you’re not used to it except topically, to sleep in and nothing more. You have never been fond of intoxicants, either personally or in terms of their effects on your companions.

“A sister has to get her notice on about a few things,” you hear him say above your head as you choke down what he’s put into your mouth and forced you to swallow. His tone is dreamy, distant, and you feel yourself start to drift with it. When he lets go of you, your head drops to your chest, chin nestled between your top thoracic struts and you wheeze. Everything down your throat seems to have been chiselled clean, dissolved and the sickly sweet taste in your mouth reminds you of what you’ve just eaten. “Miss Kanaya Maryam – oh, you ready to get your know on? You ready to be motherfuckin’ _schoolfed_?”

You gag silently, as though you could vomit up what is lying unsteady inside you. This time when he lifts your head, everything seems to melt at the edges. He has something in his hand and your mouth is lax, so he carefully places the (green) (jade green) things on your tongue and covers up your mouth again. Green, what, wait, what was that he just put into your mouth? They’re cold slimy lumps, and they taste.

They taste.

You thrash in the chair again, exploding into as much action as you can manage in the confines of your bonds. They taste of you, they are parts of you and you can feel his fingers rubbing at your throat again. Your throat works, gags, you arch your back and try to wrench your head away from his suffocating hand. You want to spit this out, these heavy lumps laying on your tongue and threatening to go down your throat with every gagging convulsion.

“When that fishbro blasted the hole through your middle,” Gamzee says lazily above your head like he isn’t holding you down to make you swallow parts of yourself, “you left some things behind, _did you have your know on of that fact_ , Kan? Miss Maryam? You up and hearing me now?” 

No, you hadn’t known and you wish you had, because you would have made sure that it had all been destroyed. You had been rather distraught at the time, considering the fact that you had so recently died, been reborn, had the hope of your species destroyed and then had to drink blood from the body of one you had considered a friend before carrying out your vengeance on the instigator of every part of that. You had understandably been thinking of other things. You wish that when you had kicked Gamzee over the edge, you had taken your chainsaw to him instead, as you had done to Eridan. That you had sliced this wretched clown in half. He does not deserve Karkat as a moirail, he does not deserve to be alive at all when better, more useful trolls have died.

“Go on, sister, _motherfucking swallow that shit_. It’s just your insides that you lost, don’t you want them back?” His voice is a mocking croon, an obscenity of pretend-pale as you lose the battle. Swallow. The slick lumps travel over your tongue, down your throat and he lets go as you gasp for air you don’t need, making sick hurt sounds that you wish you could keep back. Your head is swimming. The sopor makes everything at the edge of your eyes sparkle and you look up at Gamzee as he chuckles. The look in his eyes is far from satisfied and he flashes out of sight, and then he returns with something in his hand.

It drips jade as he squeezes whatever is caught between his fingers thoughtfully.

Oh no. No no nonononononono.

“Come on. I got _so much more_ for you, right here.” His thumb and finger press cruelly at the hinges of your jaw and your fangs part from where you had been trying stubbornly to keep them close. You snarl and hiss weakly, before your defiance dies away into a gurgle as he forces something sticky-wet into your mouth. Fingers push the gobbet of flesh past your fangs, to your gullet and you swallow. You strain to bite. You’d eat parts of yourself if you could get his fingers too, but his grip is too strong as your veins sing with sopor.

Another bite. Another. He’s feeding you yourself and you may be a blooddrinker but you are no longer meant to be a flesheater and your reconstituted insides recoil as he forces your previous organs down your throat. They make a heavy home inside you and you try to scream, you can’t get a noise louder than a wheeze out of your throat. Every mouthful tastes rank and spoiled, tastes like blood you have casually licked from your fingers when you’ve stuck yourself with a pin while you were sewing, but it tastes. Tastes like wrongness. Tastes tainted, foul, and he is forcing more and more of it down your throat, as everything inside your abdomen churns.

The sopor leaves you weak, your skin burns where you have been twisting against the ropes he’s tied you down with as he feeds you yourself. You cry, you can’t keep the tears back and you stop fighting as he feeds you bite after bite. Every so often, he gives you a spoonful of sopor to cleanse your mouth and you go down further, deeper. You run away inside yourself, to keep from thinking, from knowing what the highblood in front of you is forcing down your throat. What you’re now swallowing without protest.

You eat.

“There. Doesn’t that all up and feel motherfucking better, now you’ve got all yourself back together again?” he whispers cruel and soft into your ears. “Should fill all up your empty spaces, lil’ glowbug, and the sopor to calm you down. You’ll keep your motherfucking jealous oculars off my miraculous palemate, won’t you?” He shakes your shoulder and you nod dazedly. Anything. Anything so long as you never have to open your mouth again. “You have learned your god damn lesson, ain’t ya?” You nod, and your head lolls around loosely on your neck. Your stomach is heavy, your body is lead. Your head is empty. You can not bear to think any more. “You had motherfucking better, or I won’t just be feeding you parts that you had left discarded and unthought of on the fucking floor, miss Maryam. I will be up and feeding you _what I motherfucking remove_ , and I will start with your _blasphemous lying tongue_.”

More sopor on his fingers, scooped out from the pietin and you finally, finally escape into darkness.

You wake up inside your respiteblock, on a pile of discarded fabrics and your head aches, your mouth is sticky. Your clothes are clean. For a moment, you can not remember what has brought you here and what nightmare you have woken from, but in case you had forgotten in the midst of the sopor Makara had forced down your throat, the clown-nosed smiley face on the wall in his distinctive blood colour, the highest colour left on the satellite, would more than remind you. Shuddering, you get up to go to the ablutions trap. 

When you’re inside it, you slide down the wall until you’re seated under the running water and stare blankly at the tile. You have eaten yourself. One of your hands rests on your stomach, and you wonder.

You wonder what more of you would taste like.


End file.
